anyways · fun · Uncategorized

In Love #4

I’m in love with mismatched socks. Short n long, tight n loose coming together for the good of feet humanity. Tending to the warmth of my sole. A FU to the matched, pristine, perfect world. Wardrobe rules are to be broken, one sock at a time. The deliciousness of WRONG.

My non-conformity has deep roots, childhood roots. We were to appear presentable as to not bring shame to THE FAMILY. An unspoken rule, to make the Matriarch happy – so she could be cast as a really attentive, perfect Mother. All her ducklings in a row, soldiers with matching smiles. Matching everything.

This CONFORMITY…An energetic expectation in the bloodline. Grandma donned a classic narcissistic wardrobe. She would dress in a single color. Obsessive-like. Crazy, really. Hat, shoes, shirt, earrings, jacket, purse, pants – all banana yellow or all red or what have you. Modeling conformity, discipline, obsession, vanity, rigidity. Was quite the sight.

So, my duty…to unravel rigidity, one string at a time. A private joke just under the surface of my SEEMINGLY aligned exterior. Wrong feels so right. Fleece, Fuzzy, striped, embroidered, nylon, wool, buttoned, jeweled, knee-high or mid-calf. My socks, my secret.

When I am “found out”, my secret cluster fuck accidentally revealed, I blurt – “But I have another pair just like this at home”.

Forgiveness · healing · healthy · Uncategorized

I could never save you

So much sadness – playing out. Her mental illness more translucent than ever. Infantile, empty, spiraling, desperate. Her energy screams- save me. Her wanting to orchestrate, push and control others. More than happy to reduce (anyone but primarily) her children, to servants. Her constant chatter, talking just to talk. Pitiful attempts to get her soldiers to respect her, respect her wishes, follow her crazy, blindly. Unsuccessful. Relentless reporting out to others. People, facts she’s confusing. Desperate to connect the dots, connect with others, but clueless as to how to execute.

Tragic, really.

I can’t help you mother. I never could. Any sign of weakness or vulnerability – sinking your teeth in, you just consumed me. If I give up my boundaries, my SELF, I can have a Mother. You can’t help it. I know this. The wanting I feel in your energy field keeps me just out of reach. You pulled the strings, a masterful puppeteer, directed my life. And when I strayed too far onto the edge of reality or erected a healthy boundary… you schooled me with your disapproving looks and shame.

Although I feel crushing sadness for the way you’ve regressed, your devouring, degrading and energy snatching persona is repulsive to me. If only you were able to see what I see. If only. Instead you slip deeper into your unreality. Maybe one day, eventually, forgetting who I am. Completely. That should hurt when your biological Mother cannot remember who you are… I think it hurts more that she NEVER knew who I really was under the handcrafted outward appearance of a pretty, sweet, unassuming Catholic girl. It hurts more that I didn’t have a good Mother. An available Mother. A warm, safe Mother. Can she really forget something/someone she never knew in the first place?

I can’t save you from the life you’ve fashioned for yourself. Non-reality will be permanent for you now. Dementia, a gift of sorts. It’s what you’ve always wanted – your brain finally conceded. Thank you for teaching me what to run from, separating myself. Giving everything up to protect myself from degradation, shame, guilt, control, crazy, intrusiveness, invasion, abuse, betrayal…too much to list.

I can’t save you now. I never could.